The Reality of Madness
by Azolean
Summary: What will happen to Holmes when the very thing that makes him more than an animal turns against him so viciously?
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **I really, really struggled with the title for this. I have no idea why, but nothing seemed to work without giving away the story. Heck, my last title wasn't exactly special, either. Ug, not a good start. Hopefully the story itself won't prove so disappointing. _

___**Guest: **Thank you very much for that review on "Flatmates to Friends"! If you're still reading, I wanted to let you know that I went ahead and tossed this one up as a result of the motivation that inspired. Thank you!_

_Okay, here's one that is post-Provocation, that does in some ways tie in with that, while maintaining something of the canon timeline. It is a bit darker, and possibly more graphic. But I tend to try to keep things from getting out of hand in those aspects. _

_Hopefully my posting speed will remain about the same as before and this will be completed shortly. _

* * *

**Prologue**

_What is reality? _Holmes wondered vaguely.

Somewhere in the darkness that clouded his mind he knew he was lost. The black cloud of bleakness he had experienced in years past could not begin to compare to this momentary swirl of emptiness that consumed him now. From this distant, cold perspective, he knew he was damned to this. No amount of cocaine, morphine, or other artificial and chemical mixtures could even begin to stave off this.

Minutes...hours...years...

_ It doesn't matter anymore. None of this matters. _

He could hear his own voice in his head. But the words would not escape his lips. Somewhere far away in a place filled with light and activity he could see...things. There were other voices. Voices that called to him or cursed him. He couldn't tell anymore. And they were too far away to touch him now.

Light had become a concept, and nothing more. Maybe it was a memory. Yes, that seemed right somehow. Light was a memory of something...else. Perhaps it was someone else entirely. Holmes wondered if these were someone else's memories. He could feel others. But, like everything save for the darkness that now consumed his heart, mind, and soul, they were distant and beyond his reach.

_Beyond comprehension._

He considered for a moment that they had once been him, as he had been them. Was there really a difference? Weren't all humans just a mass of flesh that would die and rot eventually anyway? How could anything so fragile and meaningless possess any form of realistic substance?

_ But what _is _reality?_

For Holmes, this darkness was reality. There was no physical. The physical existence had no place is this silent, empty hell.

_ Hell..._

Oh yes, this was hell. This was the hell he had earned. He created, he flirted with it, he denied it. He had welcomed it with open arms in his younger years. But nothing he had experienced then could have prepared him for this taste of such delicious mental agony. There was nothing here. Nothing of himself. Nothing of the others. Nothing of his world or his life that mattered.

For a few, brief minutes, he was allowed to see just how insignificant his life really was in this massive darkness that consumed the universe.

_ So vast...empty..._

And then the screaming began. There in the darkness, there was not even a barrier from which his screams could echo and reverberate. The darkness consumed and smothered those screams as it did the light. The life he once knew was gone. It was somewhere beyond the darkness along with all the other concepts that he thought were real, but had only tricked him. Here was reality.

This was his life.

_ This is real._

"Blast it, Holmes! Will you _please_ watch where you're going?" Lestrade ground out through teeth clenched in frustration.

Holmes blinked in confusion as he stumbled. Beside him Watson had a gentle grip on his arm as if guiding him somewhere. For a moment Holmes struggled to keep his heart from pounding its way out of his chest. Only now did he realize where he was. Obviously he was on his way to Lestrade's office when he'd bumped into the man. What had him barely concealing true terror was the fact that his last, clear memory was of that morning and breakfast.

How much time had he lost?

What had he done?

Why couldn't he remember?

What was it about Watson's presence that made him shudder so?

When had he realized that Watson was no longer his anchor to the light?

Why wouldn't that darkness just take him and be done with it?

How much longer could this go on before Watson found out?

So many questions raced through his mind in the seconds it took him to catch up to where he was and why, that even Lestrade and Watson were now gazing at him in concern. Shaking off these things to focus on the case once more, Holmes pulled himself up putting on yet another one of his masterful performances. Smirking slightly, he tossed some comment about their smaller minds not being able to keep up with him anyway before he turned to enter Lestrade's office. He did not miss Watson's dubious frown, but was glad his friend let the matter drop. This was no place or time to address these issues.

Besides, how does one explain to another person that they, and their entire life as they know it are not even real?


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

Holmes stared in mute horror at the corpses lying before him. Father and son had died together. Despite Mr. Reid's infuriating obtuse behavior, he did not deserve death. Nor had the son that had come to Holmes for help, begging that he save his father from whatever evil haunted their family. Three days ago John Reid Jr. had come to Holmes' consulting room to lay out a very simple story of greed and blackmail. Holmes could remember thinking how very easy this would be to solve, and such a thrill for taking down such a well-known criminal of the London underworld.

_Has it really only been three days?_

Part of his mind wondered such inane things at times like this. It was almost a defense mechanism against the reality of his own failure. He had thought there would be more time. The rational part of his mind knew that there should have been more time, that there was no way to know Collins would move so swiftly. The greater, more empathetic part of his mind cursed himself for his arrogance. He cursed himself for not seeing that the moment Mr. Reid Jr. had crossed his threshold he had signed their death warrant. He should have warned them. He should have planned for this. He should have...

"Holmes!" Watson hissed, obviously not for the first time.

Holmes could say nothing. His eyes were transfixed by the sight of the two bodies, beaten and stabbed numerous times until they lay in a pool of their own congealing blood. This was his fault, the result of his lack of foresight. In his almost two decades as a consulting detective, such failure never grew any easier to bear. If anything, it was always worse than before, as he should know better by now.

Now Watson was genuinely concerned. Regardless of present company—or, perhaps because of it—he felt the need to get Holmes out of his stupor, now. Taking Holmes by the arm, he forcibly turned him away from the corpses and lead him toward the door. It was only a matter of minutes before Lestrade and company would return.

"Holmes!" Watson he called more firmly, as they exited into sunshine.

Holmes felt the sunshine a mocking reminder of the seasons. The colorful flowers blooming all around him seemed so very wrong in light of what he had just seen. Heaving a sigh, he brought his attention outward once more. Feeling more weary than he could remember in many years, he turned to face his partner's green eyes squarely.

"There's nothing you could have done," Watson started off. "You could not have known—"

_Good man, Watson, _Holmes thought sadly; knowing his friend was never one to doubt him.

"That is beside the point now," Holmes cut him off briskly, regaining his composure. "It is done, and there is still a blackmailer and three murders to catch."

For a moment Watson eyed him critically. Watson knew this was not the end of it. He knew his Holmes. There was no doubt this was going to come back on them. But so long as Holmes had a target on which to focus his energy, there was a chance he might stave off the bleakness that seemed to be creeping around the edges of his heart and soul. It was not the first time he had seen the warning signs these last few weeks. He could only hope his continued presence with Emily so close would continue to hold them off.

"Come, Watson," Holmes said decisively, "we must speak with friend Lestrade."

His brow furrowing darkly, Watson did not hesitate to follow. This act was for his benefit, he knew. Perhaps it was time to plan another holiday. With the spring weather being more than accommodating of late, the demands upon his time as a doctor had dropped off considerably. And their last holiday that had resulted in a case involving a most unpleasant plant known as the Devil's Foot root had not been very successful. Holmes had been desperately needing time to recover from pushing himself to the breaking point. Instead, he had spent weeks recovering from their holiday.

Two years later as Watson could see the repeated warning signs of one of Holmes' black moods coming, he thought that it might be best to remove his friend from these surroundings that demanded so much of his time. Even when given the opportunity to rest and recover, there was always a case at hand to pull him away. Watson could not watch him at all times, as Emily was only just turning nine years old. She still clung to her new father and uncle with all the tenacity of one who has known the horrors of abandonment. Watson had not seen Holmes in one of his black fits in almost five years. Though his friend had held them off admirably, Watson knew they would come again sooner or later.

And, likely, it would come with a vengeance that would make up for lost time.

Even as Holmes was leading them away from the house and the arriving constables to seek out Inspector Lestrade, Watson began turning his mind toward preparation for the coming days. This was going to be a long month, indeed.

~o~o~o~

Holmes woke gasping quietly and trembling in the darkness of the sitting room. He vaguely recalled Watson forcing him to eat at least something, as Emily had come over to join them for dinner. He had known it was his friend's way of forcing him to behave, as he saw it. It was not uncommon for Emily to come over to share their meals from time to time, but it always seemed Watson arranged these when he felt Holmes was needing to eat. He knew Holmes would always do his best to provide a good example of proper behavior when in Emily's presence.

But he could not remember anything much after that. A moment later, while Holmes was still trying to gain his bearings, a subtle movement beside the burned down fire made him very nearly leap off the settee.

"Steady, Holmes," Watson said soothingly, turning up the gas. "It's just me."

Holmes scowled fiercely, his brows knitting together as he threw off the blanket Watson had obviously taken from his bed. "What are you doing here?"

Instead of being offended, Watson appeared amused as he cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "I must have dozed off in the chair."

He paused to take in Watson's appearance for the first time as he threw off the last vestiges of his horrific nightmares. Though it certainly appeared to be the truth, Holmes could tell it wasn't the entire truth. Watson was just rumpled enough to look as if he had slept at least a short while in the chair. But his hair was as neatly in place as if he'd been sitting a bedside vigil. Likely, that's how his friend saw the matter, as well.

Holmes grunted something unpleasant in response. His nightmares in the last couple of years had grown less and less frequent following their encounter with the Devil's Foot root, but they were no less vivid or terrifying. Though they had never discussed them in any great detail, Watson had been a quiet presence nearby whenever Holmes found himself trapped in the hellish visions his mind would conjure to torment him. In all this time, he'd begun to wonder if it was some sort of punishment for his stupidity that day.

_And a most deserved and fitting punishment it is, _he thought to himself darkly.

Ignoring his friend's scrutiny, Holmes moved himself to the fireside chair as Watson stirred the embers back to life. He settled himself comfortably with his pipe watching Watson's movements as he explored these darker thoughts himself. Neither felt the need to speak further, at this point. Afterall, in so many years of close companionship, they knew each other too well for simple words to convey anything meaningful when silence could speak so much more.

Holmes mused that his friend's features no longer seemed so careworn or weary. His daughter had done much to bring out the man Holmes had known his Watson to be. Somewhere in the last four years his friend had shaken off the last traces of grief that had clouded his every expression. Raising Emily had turned out to be an adventure for both of them, but more so for Watson as he had juggled to keep her out of the public eye while maintaining every appearance of living at Baker Street. Often Holmes had questioned if his friend was simply taking on too much in dividing his time between his resumed practice, his attempts to help the less fortunate of the city, raising a daughter, and his work on their cases. But, always when it seemed his dear friend was wearing down, a few days spent with Emily were all that it took to restore him to good humor and health.

Catching sight of his friend's scrutiny, Watson cocked an amused eyebrow as he lit his own pipe. Much as Holmes could read many of Watson's thoughts through such subtle gestures, Watson had developed the same affinity it would seem.

"I tucked Emily into bed hours ago," Watson finally explained. "I was in need of some company."

Holmes snorted derisively. He knew better. Obviously he had not been very good company considering he was asleep. Though, it did bother him somewhat that could not clearly remember the time spent between dinner and the nightmares. The gaps in his memories were not a frequent occurence. They happened every once in a while when he was distracted, but had been short and seldom enough that Watson had yet to learn of them. And, with any luck, Holmes hoped he never would. It would appear they were just one more side effect of the dose of smoke he'd deliberately inhaled that day in the little cottage on the Cornish peninsula.

After a few more minutes spent in silence, smoking contentedly, Holmes caught on to the feeling that Watson was wanting to broach a subject that he knew neither of them would care for at this point. However, given his own dark musings, Holmes was welcome to any distraction. He did not even want to begin considering his tragic failure in the Reid case yet. That would be something best dealt with alone. Watson did not need to hear his thoughts upon the matter to know already where they would take him. And, Watson would only argue and try to prevent him from accepting that failure for what it was.

For a moment those green eyes flashed his direction once more. When he caught sight of the expressions across Holmes' features, it seemed to only bolster his resolve. It was as Holmes had expected. His friend had seen through him and did not like what he was seeing.

"Emily's birthday is coming up," Watson started softly, as if commenting more to himself than to Holmes.

"And you would like to get away from London for a time to be with her more openly," Holmes finished, already knowing where this was going. "Of course, that means you'll want to drag me out of the confines of my rooms in an equally appropriate display of appreciation for your daughter's aging another year."

Watson smiled warmly as his eyes glittered in amusement. It usually was this way with Holmes, always acting the part of the reluctant uncle. "If it is not too much of an inconvenience."

"What sort of festivities did you have in mind?" Holmes asked, not bothering to mask his distaste for such things.

"Oh, just the usual," Watson started, the gleam in his eye turning downright mischievous. "A quiet village trip to the countryside, a few gifts, Uncle Holmes' special brand of entertainment..."

Holmes very nearly shuddered as he glared. He clearly remembered Emily's first birthday with them shortly after they had returned to their newly renovated lodgings here on Baker Street. Emily had fallen into a sort of depression that only a child torn from her familiar surroundings could experience. Holmes' empathy had stretched to the breaking point as he watched Watson helplessly trying to keep her from falling further. He had seemed on the verge of disbanding their partnership and returning with Emily to Edinburgh when Holmes had surprised them all.

Since Emily could not remember her own birthday beyond it being some time early in the year, Holmes had declared that her birthday would officially be known ever after as March 15th. In honor of this day, he had had Mrs. Hudson go on a baking spree that had kept both herself and Emily busy for most of the day. Not knowing at all what the baking was for, Emily had participated with only limited enthusiasm. While in the rooms above, Holmes had prepared a special display of his talents that had Watson stifling his mirth at every turn. For hours Holmes had entertained the child and father with various costumes and performances that had the little girl squealing with laughter.

It had seemed the final touch Emily had been needing to finally settle in to her new life on Baker Street. Holmes had sent her off to sleep that night in Watson's arms with a soothing lullaby from his violin that had her begging for lessons of her own the next day. Watson's gratitude had been such that he had even speculated openly that Holmes deserved a title more than simply uncle. Holmes had fended these off with his usual brisk responses toward disliking such distractions in his partner. It had been purely selfish interest on his part in needing his Watson's undivided attention during their investigations.

As ever, Watson had found other ways of expressing his gratitude, while keeping Holmes' position in their family firmly placed as second father, regardless of what little Emily called him. Together they had kept Holmes almost constantly active in various forms. Though he would never admit it to himself, Holmes was a father in every way that mattered. He would take time from his day to give her lessons on the smaller violin he had made especially for their first Christmas together on Baker Street. He often gave her various other lessons that would easily be covered either by the governess, Ms. Tuckfield, or Watson himself. On more than one occasion Watson had returned from his rounds to find the two engrossed in some project or another on the floor with papers spread in waves all around them.

But it seemed this might no longer be enough. As Holmes' mood had begun a much more gradual decline than in previous years, Watson had begun noticing more and more signs of his friend's change in mental and emotional status. It had begun with taking more investigations than was his norm. What at first appeared to be an expected reduction in time spent with Emily as his cases took him away from home more and more often, soon turned into an almost deliberate avoidance of his friend as well. Watson had simply given Holmes his space and let him sort things out for himself. He would, as expected, bounce back from these bouts with renewed vigor and something almost apologetic in his behavior toward them.

Watson could not fathom what was causing these little bouts. He had no doubts there was something going on in Holmes' head, for he had seen to real changes or serious downward turns in their cases. Though, he had to admit he had not been as frequently involved in those cases as he had in the past. The demands on his time as a doctor and father, among other things, had not been a source of contention. Instead of Holmes displaying an almost childish desire to regain his attention, Holmes had allowed him to drift away somewhat. In all their years together, Watson had never seen Holmes truly pull away from him on either a mental or an emotional level. It was this that had alarmed him the most.

After the events of today's case, he knew his friend would be brooding for some time. He had no intention of letting this drag him down alone into darkness. Should it come to that, Watson would make arrangements even Holmes could not refuse. Holmes had displayed none of the symptoms of returning to his habits of old, and Watson trusted him entirely. But he would not allow Holmes to even think he had a need for such artificial coping mechanisms while he was able to prevent it.

For most of the remaining hours of the night, the two sat silently awake and pondering their individual thoughts. From time to time one would glance at the other as if attempting to read their thoughts. Both were highly successful at these, nowadays. But that did not mean either of them was happy with what they were seeing. Eventually the two gave up and dozed lightly in their chairs. And it was thus that Mrs. Hudson found them the next morning. Shaking her head in fondness, she covered them and stoked the fire once more. Leaving them to their fitful rest, she headed next door to see if Emily would like to help her cook breakfast later.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

When Watson entered the foyer at 221B the next evening shivering, wet, and miserable his only expectation had been a nice hot cup of tea and a seat by the fire. Whether this took place in his own rooms next door or right here in Mrs. Hudson's house, he really didn't care. Sensing more than seeing that Mrs. Hudson was not home at the moment, he made his way up to the sitting room. The darkness that shrouded the sitting room had his heart sinking into his feet moments later as he caught sight of Holmes sprawled out on the settee. It was a matter of seconds to realize that Mrs. Hudson was likely next door with Emily and Ms. Tuckfield, and Holmes was the reason for this. Likely as not, he had all but run them out of the house. And, as usual from the past, he made no effort to lock the sitting room door as if inviting Watson to share in his misery.

Watson cursed silently, preparing himself for the inevitable encounter. Closing the sitting room door behind himself, he surveyed the room quietly. Finally he stepped around the settee to face the slovenly lump of clothing and blankets curled up in his misery. The only light in the room was that from the fire that he was certain Holmes had not stirred himself to stoke. Pushing aside his disappointment, ignoring his aching wounds and shivering discomfort, Watson seated himself in his desk chair directly across from Holmes. He had seen those gray eyes glittering in the half-light from the fire and knew very well that Holmes was awake and aware. As he pushed aside his personal feeling of the day, concern came to the fore as Holmes still refused to so much as acknowledge his presence.

"Alright there, Holmes?" Watson finally prodded.

Holmes blinked slowly.

Watson took in as much as he could of his friend's features in the dim light. He was, as usual, pale and drawn. He could detect no signs of physical pain or distress. The blank, smooth features were far to reminiscent of the Holmes he had once known when in the grips of a cocaine or morphine high; but Watson refused to believe his friend had turned back to that after only one day of this black mood. He had spent too long fighting those cravings to have given in so easily.

"Will you speak with me?" Watson asked, gently.

Holmes vacant, distant expression never changed. Something of fear now began to creep into the doctor's heart. This was more. Even in his most drugged stupor, Holmes had always recognized his friend's voice or given some sign of response. Feeling the need for more light to more closely inspect his friend for possible injuries or illness, Watson rose from his chair and headed toward the gas lamps above the fireplace. Just as he was turning up the lamps, the nearly silent whisper of movement behind him alerted him to Holmes' presence. He turned his attention back toward Holmes as he reached for the other gas lamp.

"Are you quite alright? You seemed a bit—"

Watson's next words were cut off with a strangled gasp of surprise as a knife buried itself in his right shoulder. Stumbling backward to seat himself roughly in his own fireside chair, he stared uncomprehendingly a the sight of his friend standing less than a foot away. The bloody blade of the jackknife from the mantle still held in his grip as it had released itself from Watson's flesh when he'd fallen. Holmes still stared with the same, blank expression he had had only moments before on the settee.

Even as the blood poured from this fresh wound in warm rivulets around his clasping hand, he could not bring himself to believe what he was seeing and feeling. Questioning his own sanity, he ducked another swipe of the knife as it headed downward toward his heart. There was no doubting the murderous intent of that maneuver. Not wanting to hurt his friend, but not able to defend himself otherwise, Watson swung a backhanded swipe at the knife-wielding hand. It struck the fireplace mantle with enough force for Holmes to lose his grip. Attempting to flee, Watson rolled himself out of his chair and toward the settee. He didn't even manage to get that far as this unfeeling, murderous thing that looked like Holmes tackled him from behind.

Watson saw stars as his head brushed against some article of furniture his dazed mind could not identify in the mêlée. However, his focus was brought painfully back to his present circumstances as Holmes' hands found purchase around his exposed neck. Watson had always admired the smaller man's incredible strength. But now, as those fingers squeezed stopping the flow of air to his lungs and blood to his brain, he cursed that strength.

And still those features held no life, no expression, nothing of his friend.

For a moment Watson struggled against that grip, forcing himself not to use any of the combative moves that had once come so easily to him as he knew he would only hurt Holmes, possibly seriously. But as that grip squeezed with more and more force, he began to panic, knowing permanent damage would be done soon to himself. Unable to break that iron grip as darkness began to creep around the edges of his vision, Watson finally let instinct take over. For a moment he flailed, his weakening limbs disobeying the commands of his oxygen starved brain. He thrashed wildly trying to throw Holmes off balance at least and weaken that grip if only for a moment.

He had waited too long to fight back.

Still struggling, but too weak to be effective, he fought more so then to stave off the darkness than Holmes' attack. Just as he dimly felt his body slipping away, the grip slackened and fell away completely.

His next clear recollection was a combination of gasping and retching the contents of his nearly empty stomach onto the carpet of the sitting room beside the coffee table. His right shoulder throbbed with stabbing pains from the knife wound. His lungs burned and stomach lurched. His head pounded with the rhythm of his racing heartbeat. His neck...His attempts to swallow the bile rising once more to the back of his throat burned, but at least he did not taste blood. He was able to breathe without choking on blood. But he had no doubts he would be in some pain for a while.

Finally his shattered thoughts caught up to how he'd come to be in this miserable state. In a panic, he turned around to find Holmes lying beside him on the floor beside the settee unconscious. A trickle of blood flowed from tiny gash on Holmes' forehead. Between them on the floor was a small, brown, wooden case. Though Watson could not remember, he knew this must have been the object he had used to knock his friend unconscious. Quickly he checked his friend's condition. His pulse and respiration were a bit depressed, but otherwise seemed no worse for the encounter. Relieved beyond words he had not done his friend any serious harm, he took up the case already knowing what he would find.

Watson's head sank to his chest at the sight of the two bottles. One had obviously been used recently, though it was not marked. Based on Holmes' condition, he could guess which. He resisted the urge to sling the whole thing into the fire. Placing it onto the coffee table with exaggerated care, he tried to force his hands to steady. Whatever had happened to his friend, this was something unlike he had ever seen before. The last time Holmes had attacked him there had been rage there. His emotions had been twisted by many things at the time, but at least they had been visible. Here there had been...nothing.

Watson shuddered visibly in recollection of those blank, empty features. Suddenly, another thought occurred to him. His heart stuttered in terror for one, brief moment. Before he realized quite what he was doing, his body was propelling itself toward the concealed door on the landing just outside the sitting room. Still somewhat shocky, he stumbled and bumped against every piece of furniture before finally digging out his keys and unlocking the door. There were two doors. The one in his former bedroom, and this hidden one here. Praying silently things his heart did not dare put into words, he cursed his shaking hands as he finally managed to unlock and slip the secret catch into place.

A moment later the sounds of giggles and Mrs. Hudson's admonishments drifted through the partially open door. Knowing his daughter and Mrs. Hudson should not see him in such a state, he carefully and silently closed and locked the door once more. Returning to the sitting room, he closed that door as well. Seconds later he let the reaction of relief wash over him as he slid to a sitting position right there against the door. For those few minutes he had been almost too terrified to comprehend what he could have found on the other side of that door. After several minutes of just breathing and silently thanking every diety whose name he could remember, he finally brought his attention back to the sitting room.

Blood continued to flow sluggishly from the open wound in his shoulder. Briefly his mind turned to this before drifting away again. Much as he disliked the idea, Holmes was a serious threat. He may not have had nearly as much experience or training as Watson in his life, but he was just as deadly in his own way. Watson did not doubt for one moment that Holmes would have killed him that drug-induced state. His heart stuttered painfully once again considering what that would have done to his friend's obviously fragile mental and emotional state.

Ignoring his own condition for the time being, Watson retreated to Holmes' room for a moment to dig some rope out of the closet. Gently, but securely, he tied his friend's hands and feet together in such a way he could not hope to escape. Praying Mrs. Hudson would not return any time soon, he swiftly ducked out through Holmes' bedroom door and up to his room to get some clean clothes and his backup medical bag.

Some twenty minutes later he was stripped to the waist in front of the fire tying off yet another stitch when Holmes began to stir. He briefly glanced up from his work, but as Holmes' head was facing away, he could not really assess his friend's level of awareness. Opting to focus instead on his awkwardly angled task, he completed another stitch before the stirring turned into pained groans. Feeling less than sympathetic at this point, he kept his peace wanting Holmes to discover for himself what his current condition was. Twisting his hands and wrists painfully, Watson finished off his last stitch, grateful the hole had been narrow, though dangerously deep. Still covered in blood almost to his knees, he reached for his bag to find some bandages.

Holmes' half-conscious struggling and groaning suddenly took on a more panicked and pitched feel as he became aware of the bindings. Knowing his friend would only injure himself in such a panic, Watson finally stood and came within Holmes' view. Holmes froze as he took in the sight of his friend standing there with a black ring of bruises around his throat and drying blood smeared all down his front.

"Watson!"

"Welcome back," Watson growled around his damaged, swollen throat.

Holmes blinked. Watson seemed...angry. His face flushing with guilt, Holmes recalled his last clear memory. He had been injecting himself with morphine in an attempt to dull the pain he knew it would not cure.

Watson continued to glare down at him threateningly. Few times in all the years of their acquaintance had Holmes seen him quite this angry. This was not the quick flash of temper, this was colder and more direct. As if only now realizing he was bound hand and foot, Holmes finally began to process what he was seeing. Watson would injured, obviously attacked. He was bound, his head pounding from an obvious blow to the head.

_No._

He refused to accept this. Despite the evidence, there was no way he could have possibly...

"Watson?"

Holmes voice had taken on an almost pleading quality. He knew what he was asking. He was wanting Watson to deny the evidence with his own eyes. He could not recall anything after the syringe in his arm. There was nothing. It was blank, dark...empty. Now trembling visibly with horror, Holmes' gray eyes pleaded what he could not put into words.

"How long?" Watson grated out painfully.

He knew he had no need to clarify. The guilt, horror, and disbelief were plain on Holmes' face. Were it not for the ropes, Holmes would have shriveled up in abject misery. As it was, his head sank to his chest.

"Today."

"Do you remember?"

Holmes slowly shook his head, unable to face that icy wrath in those green eyes. Watson made not a sound as he very deliberately picked up the case and opened it. Not even bothering to glance at Holmes, he threw the contents into the fire and let the case follow it.

Holmes wished it was himself burning in there.

Watson took up the discarded jackknife, still smeared with his own blood. Making certain Holmes could see it, he began to cut the bindings. Holmes was too miserable to speak. There was no apology he could offer. His one consolation was that if Watson was still sitting here, at least he had not harmed anyone else.

Still holding the knife very levelly within Holmes' sight, Watson grated out two more words that reverberated in Holmes' mind. They were a promise, a threat, and the only warning he would ever receive.

"Never again."

The unspoken promise of violence behind those cold, green eyes made Holmes shudder. Never, in all his life had he thought such a sight would be directed toward himself. He prayed he would never see it again.

His hands now freed, he didn't know what to do with himself. Even with his vivid and active imagination he could not begin to comprehend what had happened inside his own mind that he would have done such a thing. His mind continued to rebel even as he absorbed the rest of the sitting room. The jackknife showed him the conflict had started near the fireplace. The blood on the floor showed how they had rolled around on the floor afterward. The black ring around Watson's neck provided him ample illustration of the events afterward. The blood crusting his dressing gown here he now sat on the settee...

Watson's blood. His friend's blood.

His misery was complete as he watched Watson covering his fresh stitches with a clean bandage and cleaning up the remaining evidence of the events in the sitting room. Helpless and consumed with a guilt he could not have before imagined, he curled in on himself on the settee. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in his knees.

He was too hollow and inhuman to weep.

Some indeterminate amount of time later he heard Watson unlock and then leave the sitting room. He listened to the man's slight limp as he ascended the stairs to his former bedroom. Obviously redressed and presentable, he intended to return to his own quarters. Holmes only vaguely wondered if he'd taken the keys with him. At this point, Holmes had no intention of going over there for the foreseeable future.

And the sense that Watson had just abandoned him, washed his hands entirely, was one he felt more than justifiable.

~o~o~o~

Feeling more exhausted and abused than he could put into words, Watson crossed from 221B through the door of his former bedroom and into his own bedroom in his own house. Putting the blood covered clothes and medical bag where the would not be found by Emily or anyone else, he sank miserably onto his bed. All the rage he had brought to the fore to ensure Holmes understood where they now stood with each other drained away in a single rush. Limp and shaking, Watson felt his heart squeeze painfully. He had no concept of the demons that now haunted his friend's mind. He could not begin to comprehend that level of darkness or what had possessed him to act the way he had.

Watson only knew that he hurt for him. He hurt, and he was terrified. He could not bring himself to consider what would have happened had Mrs. Hudson and Emily returned. Part of him prayed that whatever it was Holmes was going through would stay directed at himself and not turn on his daughter or any other innocents. Watson could not live with himself if anything were to happen to Emily. He knew he would not survive that again.

But he could not abandon Holmes.

God help him. He could not abandon his friend, no more than he could his daughter. For several minutes his mind swirled with horrifying images of what could have happened tonight. His heart refused to accept what his mind was telling him. A part of him had been so angry with Holmes he wanted to retaliate with equal violence for the betrayal of trust and worse. A part of him wanted to give up, to walk away, to leave his only friend for dead. A part of him shriveled up in guilt at such traitorous thoughts. A part of him that would give anything to protect his little Emily from harm screamed in the face of that guilt.

The conflicting emotions and thoughts consumed him. For a time all he knew were these things. And still, there was a tiny voice somewhere inside that cried out desperately his friend needed him. Wiping away the tears that openly betrayed his conflict, Watson allowed all these to fade away. For now, he needed logic. He would have to send Emily away. As long as she was this close, she was not safe. If there was even the most minute possibility of a repeat on Holmes' part—whether induced by the drugs, or something worse—he had to make sure she was safe, first. Then there was Mrs. Hudson. She would be more difficult to deal with, as she had a stubborn streak to match their own; especially when she smelled trouble. Then he would have to find someone qualified to help Holmes. Then...

Drawing some papers out of the drawer of his bureau, he set himself to completing a task he had not done in far too long. Feeling as if the act itself was a betrayal of his trust in Holmes, he updated his will and began making his plans. All the while he prayed he would not be needing it.


	4. Chapter Three

_**A/N: **I'm not entirely happy with this chapter. I feel there is more that I could put in there. But it was painful and sickening enough to write the first time. Maybe when I go back and do a little revamping I can fill it out a bit better later. Right now, I think I'm gonna go be sick._

_Please tell me if this works or if I need to scrap it and try again. I'm going to hold off a day or two to see if anyone's got anything to say about it before I post the rest of this fic. It's almost done now, anyway. _

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_ My dear Watson, _

_ I can offer no apology for this latest transgression that would suffice. I hope that an explanation offered far too late may at least give you some understanding. It is my dearest wish that you not suffer the guilt that I know you will feel._

_ How does one tell a dear friend they are losing their mind? How can I begin to make you understand that the one thing that has made me what I am has betrayed me? _

_ That it has for some reason turned against you and injured you is the worst betrayal of all. _

_ I once made a rather flippant comment that I am lost without you, my Boswell. I have inflicted any number of verbal injuries to you over the years regarding your writing of our cases. But that statement was more true than even I would have acknowledged. Without you, without your writing, I would have faded into the darkness of obscurity. I still may. You have been the light that has anchored me to something beyond that darkness. Sometimes, it seemed, you were the one thing that anchored me to reality. _

_ Please forgive my frustration. I am unable to convey to you all I wish to say. I do not possess your talent for words. _

_ My mind has betrayed me. _

_ I cannot describe to you the horror behind this statement. My hands tremble with barely contained fear. _

_ I have suffered these black fits for most of my life. But in more recent days they have taken an even darker and more sinister turn. They possess me now in a way I could not have anticipated. With your help, I have always before mastered them. _

_ Now they master me. _

_ I don't exist. You don't exist. Our entire universe is a lie. The black reminds me of your ink, dear friend. It is the black, infinite abyss that is real. Your writing created us. My chosen profession created your writing. That infinite loop defines our nonexistence. _

_ Now do you begin to understand? _

_ A part of me hopes you never will. _

_ That empty black void is the ultimate nightmare for me. That is what I see. That is where I am. My mind is destroying itself. The shattered pieces of my mind fall away into that darkness, forever. And now I am truly lost. I cannot turn to you anymore, my dear friend; for my mind has turned against even you. _

_ Please try to understand that this was not a failing on your part. If there is blame, it is my own. Perhaps you are right in that the drugs have helped in the destruction of my mind. I should have listened to you. Now it is too late._

_ I will not put you or any others in further danger. Mycroft has long been aware of my condition. It has been our understanding that when the time comes, he would be the one to see to my care. I would not put you in that painful position. I know my Watson, and how it would hurt you so to be responsible for such a thing. I know what awaits me, and Mycroft will see it done. _

_ I ask that you extend my apologies to Emily. I will not be able to see her grow into the woman I know she will become in your tender care._

_ You once asked me not to attend your execution. I now ask the same of you. This is my execution. I would ask that you remember me with those special talents you possess. Write and publish those cases you see fit for the public. My records are at your disposal. _

_ There are no words to express my gratitude for all the years of friendship and loyalty with which you have graced me. It has been a singular honor to be counted as a friend to you. _

_ Good bye. _

_ Sherlock Holmes_

~o~o~o~

Holmes reread these few pages he had penned. They were not enough. He could not imagine anything that would be enough. Watson deserved so much more. But, for now, it was all he could do. With a silent prayer that his friend would not suffer overmuch, Holmes placed them into an envelope and sealed it.

He glanced around the sitting room he had tidied during the night. He had taken inventory of all his possessions and added a few extra instructions to his brother on the dispensation of his property. The light of morning filtered through the now open sitting room windows as he took in this scene. As he imprinted this memory of his only true home into his shattered mind, he prayed it would stay with him. But, like all else that rattled around his overly active mind, he expected it would be lost to the darkness.

Tying his dressing gown and removing his slippers, Holmes silently exited the sitting room. For a moment he listened with his heightened hearing for any sounds of movement from above or next door. All was silent, as he had sent Mrs. Hudson on an errand that would likely keep her busy for most of the day. Satisfied, he crept up the stairs. For a moment he paused again to listen a the door to Watson's former bedroom. Nothing. Carefully he opened the door and moved across to the door that joined the two houses. On the other side, he could hear soft snores as his friend slept. Making certain not to disturb his friend, he slid the envelope under the door.

_Good bye, dear friend. I will miss you. _

Still on silent feet, he slipped back out of the room and down the stairs. He returned to the sitting room only long enough to finish tidying his desk. His hands were steady now. He had a purpose and knew the outcome. He had mastered his fear of the inevitable and almost welcomed the closure. He was surprised, therefore, when his hands fumbled a book and knocked over the still open bottle of ink.

As the darkness spread across the pages left bare on his desk, his eyes locked onto the growing abyss as it consumed him once more.

~o~o~o~

The sunlight that had finally begun to filter through his bedroom windows woke Watson in a way he thought most rude. Still hurting in too many places to count, he rolled over yet again trying to avoid the inevitable. Knowing he had far too much to do today to lay about for too long, however, he finally forced himself up and out of the bed. He was still exhausted and suffering the effects of the day before. His mind firmly locked on coffee, he began his morning most reluctantly.

He had spent most of the night tossing and turning, pacing and thinking. After saying a gravelly good night to Emily, he had allowed Ms. Tuckfield to see her to bed that night. Most of the night had passed in a blur of planning. Today he would begin to implement these plans. His heart rebelled at some of them. His soul wished there were another way. But his mind knew it was all he could do just to hope and pray he could do something for his friend.

Dressed and ready for the day, he decided it was time to say good morning to his daughter. Likely, she was already well on her way to taxing Ms. Tuckfield's patience with her enthusiasm as they worked their way through breakfast. Smiling at this thought, Watson turned to give himself a quick glance in the mirror. When he felt and heard something slide briefly underfoot, he paused.

A cream-colored envelope near his door to the adjoining room stared back at him. Curiously he picked it up, recognizing in an instant it was Holmes' familiar scrawl. He forced back the rising panic as his heart pounded painfully in his chest. Carefully he tore open the envelope, dreading what he knew he was likely to find. He scanned the pages with only the briefest of glances.

Cursing Holmes silently, he flung the papers onto his table. Hoping his friend had not already left, he exited the one room, through the other, and down the stairs to the sitting room forgetting to close the doors behind himself. He found the sitting room empty, the ink bottle overturned on Holmes' desk staining a dripping mess onto the carpet. He could imagine how happy Mrs. Hudson would be about that.

He almost laughed as the ridiculousness of that thought.

Frowning darkly, he turned toward Holmes' closed bedroom door. He could almost sense that his friend was still there. Despite the neatness of the sitting room, there was a still a presence here. He knocked softly on the door as he tested the knob, relieved to find it unlocked. When he received no response, he cracked it open slightly.

"Holmes?"

Before the door was more than a quarter opened, the world exploded in pain and sound. The roar of a gunshot only dimly registered as pain erupted from the lower right of his ribcage. Staggering, he reflexively pulled the door closed. His mind was consumed with pain and the overwhelming need to flee. Reacting purely on instinct, he turned toward the sitting room door. Behind him, another shot rang out as Holmes shot the bedroom door, apparently. He heard the bedroom door opening and a third shot fired as he slammed the sitting room door behind himself.

His mind was blank with terror as he realized he didn't even have the keys to lock the door. Even if he had, Holmes' other bedroom door was only a few feet away. The blood poured from the crater sized hole in his side. His mind reeled with shock. His concept of time skewed wildly as he wracked his brain. He had to warn Mrs. Hudson. But then Holmes could go after Emily. Frozen with indecision, he waited too long.

Watson had just made up his mind to draw Holmes toward the downstairs in the hopes he could get Mrs. Hudson to safety and keep Holmes focus on himself instead of the rooms next door, when more gunshots rang out. The first warped and bent the lock of the sitting room door. The second penetrated the already damaged wood around the locking mechanism. Watson staggered and fell backward into the hallway as the bullet entered his leg. Barely clinging to consciousness, he stared transfixed in horror at the blank mask on Holmes' face as the sitting room door was pulled open.

Time slowed to an impossible stretching of seconds.

Holmes' empty gray eyes stared down at Watson, and he felt the pain fade away. He watched the gun swing down toward him and knew he would die. Though he felt no fear, it hurt more than he could comprehend to know what this would do to his friend. When Holmes returned to himself, he would know what he had done. He thought of Emily, and prayed for Mrs. Hudson. He saw Mary's face in his mind, and his other children. So many things flew through his mind so quickly he didn't have time to really think of any of them.

"I forgive you."

The words fell from numb lips. Watson wasn't even sure what he'd said, only that he had heard his own voice amid the clamor of his thoughts. For one, brief heartbeat, he thought he saw something flash in those gray, dead eyes. And then a shriek of horror shattered the scene.

"Daddy!"

Watson's heart stopped. Perched on the stairs to his former bedroom stood Emily, frozen in terror. He saw out of the corner of his eye the gun swing her direction. Helpless, frozen, his mind refusing to process what he was seeing, he watched the bullet tear through her little chest. Her body bounced off the wall behind her before rolling the last few stairs to land in a heap on the floor.

Whatever was left of Watson died with her.

As Holmes brought the gun back around to face him, Watson forced his eyes to meet those empty ones that stared sightlessly back at him. At least he would not have long to suffer.

_Click._

_ Click. Click. Click._

Holmes continuously pulled the trigger. The cartridges were spent. Only then did Watson close his eyes. Bitterness rose up to consume his soul. He could not begin to fathom what he had done in his life to deserve such a fate. Dimly he heard Holmes return to the sitting room. It didn't matter. The bitterness and agony in his heart and soul were all that was left of him now.

His rib was shattered. His liver likely badly damaged. The blood pooled beneath him as his leg and torso bled freely. Summoning the last of his strength, he forced his shaking body to comply. Pulling himself forward, he reached out to his daughter. He kissed her curls tenderly as he wrapped his arms around her. Surrendering to the darkness, even with his last thoughts, he could not find the strength to hate his dearest friend.

~o~o~o~

Holmes woke choking on his own screams yet again. As he stared around his bedroom flooded with sunlight, he cursed himself for having fallen asleep. He couldn't remember when it had happened. He was supposed to have been dressing and going to see Mycroft. He recalled leaving the letter for Watson underneath the door. As he shook off the last shadowy taunts of the nightmare that had disturbed him more than he cared to contemplate, his nose caught the almost overwhelming scent of sulphur.

_Gunpowder!_

His heart lurching, he launched himself from his bed. Instantly his sharp eyes caught the sight of shattered edge of his bedroom door to the sitting room. Another bullet hole was only inches above it. Unspeakable horrors flitted through his mind as he forced his shaking hands to open the door.

_ Oh God..._

His eyes instantly fell on the blood staining the floor. Following this, he found it leading to an equally bullet-damaged sitting room door to the hallway and stairs beyond.

_ Please...no..._

He almost collapsed right there, unable to open the sitting room door. Numb with the twisted images his mind conjured to torment him further, he somehow managed to propel himself forward to tear open that door.

_Please, God. Please, not this...not—_

The pool of blood smeared from the wall beside his bedroom door leaving a clear trail to the two bodies lying at the foot of the stairs. For a moment the world ceased to exist. His mind refused to comprehend what he was seeing. It was not possible that his dearest friend lay there dead, curled around the body of his equally dead daughter.

_This is not real. It's not real. It can't be real._

He did not feel the impact of the floor on his knees. He did not feel his heart stuttering, trying to stop in his chest. He did not feel the blood smearing his hands as he crawled toward them.

He heard the screams. His soul screamed. His heart screamed. His mind screamed. Every fiber of his being screamed wordlessly against this nightmare.

The darkness laughed at his screams.

He knew he had done this. He had murdered his niece and best friend. What was left of his mind shattered then. He felt the pieces drifting away into that still laughing darkness.

Watson's chest moved. Holmes stared uncomprehendingly for a moment.

_He's alive!_

Tearing control back from the darkness, Holmes continued to watch. There!

_Yes!_

Watson's chest rose and fell, ever so slightly. Not daring to further contemplate this, Holmes reacted purely on instinct. Throwing himself down the stairs in a heap, his limbs suddenly beyond his control, he somehow managed to make it outside. Screams and horrified gasps followed him as he sought a constable. Still in his blood-drenched dressing gown, he ran down the streets like the mad man he knew he was.


	5. Chapter Four

_**A/N: **Okay, I tried to sleep and just couldn't let this go. I did not like where it left off. And, more to the point, it turned into something I just wanted to be done with and forgotten. Maybe I'm just not in the right frame of mind for this. And I do hope to go back and rework it a little bit. But, for right now, the weather is beautiful and I could not leave this cloud hanging over me. I'm posting these last two chapters and then cleansing my soul with a nice, brisk walk in the daylight. _

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_Not real. Not real. Not real. Not real. _

Holmes was not aware that his lips moved silently even as he repeated these words over and over again in his mind. Like some kind of childish defense against the darkness, he continued to mumble them in denial. Curled into a corner of the dark, cold cell the rest of his existence faded away. No amount of self-flagellation could compare to the torture of knowing what he had done. Knowing this, he hoped only to stave off the final descent into the empty darkness until he knew Watson's fate.

_Not real. Not real. Not real._

The images of his Watson covered in blood and curled around his daughter flashed through his mind. He could hear them now. He could hear those words that tore at his soul more painfully even than the knowledge of his betrayal.

_"I forgive you."_

_Not real. Not real._

He remembered the look of defeat and resignation, never doubting Watson truly had forgiven him for such an inhuman betrayal.

_Not real._

The darkness laughed at him.

~o~o~o~

Lestrade stared through the bars of the cell door at the broken man within. He wanted to hate Holmes now, more than ever. But having seen the man for himself, he could not.

Shaking his head sadly, he walked away. The sounds and activities of the day washed over him as he walked almost blindly back to his little office. Locking himself into this little piece of silence, he collapsed into his chair. Folding his arms on the desk, he laid his head down and wept bitterly.

He could still remember the hesitant, gangly youth Holmes had once been. He remembered Holmes' first brilliant, yet uncertain attempts to display his abilities to the world. He remembered the first time their paths had crossed and he had been forced to admit to the young man's amazing feats of deduction. He recalled all those years he had watched over Holmes as he grew into his newfound role as a private consulting detective. He even still felt that same bit of pride he had once known while watching over Holmes.

He remembered the first time he'd met the doctor. With some spark of humor, he even recalled placing a bet on how long it would take Holmes to drive the poor, recovering veteran to murder. He remembered the day he broke into Dr. Watson's house to find him weeping beside the bed of his deceased wife. He remembered the joy he saw on the doctor's face when Holmes had miraculously returned from the dead.

He now saw the broken shell of a man and a dying friend.

Forcing some semblance of control over his widely ranging emotions, Lestrade dried his tears. It would all be over soon. Mycroft Holmes was due to appear any time. It would not do to have the man see him in such a state.

He had seen the rooms at Baker Street for himself. The gun still lay on the floor of Holmes' bedroom and the trails of blood had been evidence enough. For all that he would wish to deny it, Holmes had murdered his friend's daughter and—before long—his friend. Holmes had willingly been placed into confinement alone in his cell. He confessed to the deed. All that remained was for Watson to finally let go of the thin threads that held him to life. He had no doubts, that after such a thing, the doctor would be gone soon. He had not been expected to survive the surgery; and now was not expected to survive the recovery.

Lestrade wished he would let go.

He could not imagine what would return should Watson wake to find his daughter dead and his dear friend charged with the murder and attempted murder.

Staring at the papers and case files that so thoroughly covered his desk, Lestrade felt...lost. He did not know where to begin. He had given the case over to someone else. He didn't care who got it or what they did. There was nothing he could do now for either of them. He knew Mycroft Holmes' appearance to be little more than a formality. Based on the letter found in Dr. Watson's rooms, Holmes had already been making arrangements with his brother for relocation to a sanitorium. Now that would no longer be necessary. Lestrade did not see Holmes accepting an easy way out.

Of course, given his present state, being hanged for murder might be easier.

Shaking himself thoroughly, Lestrade pushed aside all else. Whatever happened from here was out of his hands. The one thing he could do for both of them now, was go to the hospital. Leaving a note for Mycroft, he exited his office. Once outside in the bright sunlight and flower-scented air, he knew he would never be coming back.

~o~o~o~

Mycroft towered over his brother's form curled silently in the corner of the cell. The constable stood in the doorway. After what had been found at 221B Baker Street this morning, Mycroft really couldn't blame them.

"Sherlock?"

Those pale lips continued to move as his little brother's gray eyes stared vacantly at something only he could see. Mycroft wondered how much of the man there was left. Disappointed and inconvenienced as he was by all of this, he still felt some measure of pity. The desolation on those pale features tugged at a heart he had thought long dead. Heaving a sigh, he shifted his bulk directly into Sherlock's line of sight.

"Sherlock!"

Finally those hollow, lost gray eyes turned toward him. Oh yes, he remembered that expression. It was the same one he'd worn when their parents had died so very long ago.

"Please..."

Mycroft did not know what his little brother was begging for, nor did he care. He had come with news, and it wasn't pleasant. Resigned to his task, he crouched down closer to make sure his little brother was listening.

"Dr. Watson is dead."

Mycroft watched his little brother fold in on himself. Behind those eyes he saw the last fragments of sanity flee. His decision made, he nodded to himself as he rose back to his full height. Turning away, he waited for the constable to let him pass. He walked out of the doors of Scotland Yard never to return.

~o~o~o~

_Not real. Not real. Not real. _

"Dr. Watson is dead."

The darkness rose up to consume the last, shattered remains of coherent thought.

~o~o~o~

Hours. Days. Weeks. Months.

Holmes could not be certain how much time had passed. He drifted alone in the darkness. There was no thought, no feeling, no self. His last recollection was some distant sensation of movement from a physical body that could not exist. Now, as he drifted in the endless void he could hear footsteps. Turning, he found his friend. He smiled. Here in this place of nonexistence, Watson had not abandoned him.

"You murdered me."

Holmes stared in horror.

_No._

Bullet wounds appeared as if summoned by these words. As Holmes watched, Watson began to rot. The corpse standing before him stepped deliberately closer. Since there was no sense of space here, Holmes could not move away. Those putrid hands reached for him as green, dead eyes stared through him and into his soul.

_Not real. Not real. Not real. _

"You murdered my daughter."

Holmes wanted to shrink back as a rotting visage of little Emily appeared beside Watson. She too, reached toward him as if wanting to tear out his soul. Those glazed, deep blue eyes asked him why he had done such a thing.

"You murdered my daddy."

_Not real. Not real. _

"Murderer."

Lestrade appeared beside Emily.

_Not real..._

"How long did you think you could hide in the darkness, Sherlock? You knew they would come for you, eventually."

Mycroft's mocking laughter echoed in the darkness.

_Please..._

Those rotting, putrid hands grasped his soul in a chilly embrace.

_Not real not real not realnotrealnotrealnot—_

For the first time in an eternity, Holmes found his voice. The wordless screams of rage, fear, horror, and absolute denial rent the darkness asunder.

~o~o~o~

"Holmes!"

Crouching over his screaming friend, Watson shook his friend's thin shoulders viciously trying to penetrate the madness.

"Holmes! Open your eyes!"

Terrified by the soul-rending screams, Watson clung to Holmes praying silently that it was not too late. Suddenly, the screams stopped as those horror-filled gray eyes flew open. A moment later those long, dexterous fingers grasped his jacket in a white-knuckled grip as Holmes buried his face in his chest.

"Please..."

Wrapping his arm around those quaking shoulders, Watson listened for a moment to Holmes' fragile voice hoping it was over

"Please, Watson. Please, tell me this is real."

Were it not for the grip he now had on Holmes, Watson could have sunk to the grass in relief at those words. At least he was aware now of his surroundings.

"Damn fool," Watson muttered.

Apparently Holmes heard this. His shoulders that had been shaking with something akin to silent sobs suddenly slumped as Holmes released his grip and lay back in the grass beside the cottage. Much as had his friend, Watson flopped down beside him. For a time, they lay in the warmth of the afternoon sun. They let the light burn away the terror they had experienced.

"This is real."

"I certainly hope it is," Watson growled, too relieved to be truly angry with his friend anymore. "I can't bear to think what would have happened had I waited a moment longer."

"I'm so sorry."

Watson was taken aback by this sincere apology. It was not typical of Holmes to apologize outright for any of his actions. Let alone for one they had argued about so vehemently only minutes before. Rolling onto his side, he reached for Holmes' wrist. With the critical eye of a doctor, he began to assess his friend's condition.

"You were right. That was the stupidest—"

"Holmes—"

"I swear to you, Watson. I will never disregard your medical advice ever again."

Watson stared as he rose to his knees. Now he _knew_ something was wrong.

"Holmes, look at me."

"It's alright, dear friend," Holmes said warmly, amusement tinting his features as he rose to his elbows. "It's over. This is real. That...nightmare...from the Devil's Foot Root, was not. I know that, now. But I saw...things...I'm sorry."

"You're right. It was a hallucination, a nightmare. It's over. This is real."

"This is real," Holmes echoed.

Rising to his feet, Holmes helped Watson back to his own unsteady legs.

"We still have no way of knowing what kind of long-term—"

"Not now, Watson. Please," Holmes pleaded softly, unable to meet his friend's concerned gaze. "let us just enjoy the day, the light."

Watson cocked his head at Holmes with mixed curiosity and irritation. But, seeing as Holmes was more rattled than he could ever remember, he let it drop for the moment. However, as a sense of wonder and joy took over Holmes' features, his concern began to ease. He could not begin to imagine what the detective had seen that had left him screaming with such soul-wrenching horror and fear.

Holmes smiled into the sunlight. Finally shedding the sensations of having been in so many other minds and none at all, Holmes took several deep breaths to clear his lungs of that foul smoke that had caused all this. As undignified as it would seem, he almost felt he could hug Watson as he now hugged the sunlight. He laughed. It was a laughter caught up in freedom. He knew now he had banished the darkness.

That darkness had not been real. _This _was real. His Watson was real. He was real.

Somehow he knew, those black moods that crept up on him when he was exhausted and off his guard would never trouble him again. So long as he had his light, his Watson, he would be able to overcome them.


	6. Epilogue

_**A/N: **To give credit where credit is due, the italicized section here at the beginning is quoted directly from canon. It is Watson's account of the moments after their shared experience with the Devil's Foot root from ACD's "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot"._

* * *

**Epilogue**

_ "Upon my word, Watson!" said Holmes at last with an unsteady voice, "I owe you both my thanks and an apology. It was an unjustifiable experiment even for one's self, and doubly so for a friend. I am really very sorry."_

_ "You know," I answered with some emotion, for I have never seen so much of Holmes's heart before, "that it is my greatest joy and privilege to help you."_

Holmes grunted with disappointment as he tossed aside this published account of their encounter with that sinister root. He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting Watson to say about it; especially thirteen years later. He still remembered all too clearly the argument they had had over it before Watson had stubbornly planted himself in a seat beside the door, insisting that it remain open. He recalled the blazing anger in those green eyes as Watson silently dared him to follow through on what he colorfully called the most reckless act of stupidity in the detective's entire career.

He had been correct, of course.

Holmes had never truly shaken off the horror of those hallucinations. Some part of him had always wondered what Watson had seen. He supposed that was why he now felt so disappointed. He still sought some form of reassurance that his friend had not suffered too greatly for that singular act of childishness and stupidity.

Once more putting the matter away in his own mind, Holmes turned back toward the bright sunlight outside his little cottage windows and gazed contentedly upon his bee hives.


End file.
